The Paper Boy
by kristimazing
Summary: One day, he knows it's going to break him, and he'll be exposed for exactly what he is—a torn paper boy with a paper-thin ego to match. one-shot


**A/N: **I decided a torturous car ride through hours of traffic was best spent building a one-shot, brick by brick. I had the general concept of this written right after "Summertime" aired—I find Miles to be a very intriguing character and I expect him to be quite the onion. Here's to hoping and praying the writers take this opportunity to craft an excellent character with an incredible amount of room for plot development!

This is a little different than my usual style, but I like it. It was enough to keep me occupied. :)

Thanks for reading, lovelies!

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Smoke curls in front of his face as he tries to stop his hands from shaking. His toes have been clenched in his undoubtedly ruined oxfords for an eternity, his joints screaming to be exercised, stretched, anything but rolled under the rest of his feet. He can't. So he doesn't. His knobby elbows rest on his knobby knees, his knobby knees parallel to his knobby ankles, his knobby wrists flipped downward at an eighty-five degree angle. Precision, everything was about precision. He doesn't bring the lit cigarette to his lips, but he knows it's there if he wants to, and that's all that counts.

His clothes are still damp from his afternoon swim, the navy slacks plastered to the contours of his legs, the dress shirt a wrinkled second skin. He knows he should change, but he also knows that would mean vanquishing his title. He doesn't think he's ready for that, as many times as Chewy tells him to hang it up. He's too proud, too eager to stick it to his father, too foolish. Far too foolish. Doing the same things over and over again and expecting a different outcome—foolish, so foolish.

Some of the iridescent, snake-like wisps crawl up his nose, their sour taste stinging the back of his throat, their heavy hands drawing moisture from the corners of his eyes. The smoke sticks to the wet blazer like grass stains on a pair of children's jeans, dirty and tattered from a lifetime's worth of naïve exploration and horseplay. It clings to his slow-drying hair and sloshy shoes and clammy skin. Ashes tumble to the carpet leaving harsh, charcoal skid marks on the pristine threading, freshly vacuumed and shampooed by the hired help.

The breeze tormenting the guest bedroom annihilates any desire of his to leave. It's cold, too cold for early July he thinks, but what does he know? He hasn't been home this early since he's twelve years old. Classes at The Creek don't let out until mid-July, and even then, Alabama summers are the depths of Hell compared to the frosty, temperamental seasons of Ontario. Chilled shivers wrack his body, ice crystals lining his wet clothing and skin and hair and every last inch of him. His hands keep shaking and he can't keep up the effort it takes to halt them so he gives up, one more crack in his flimsy façade.

The bright, red-orange spark dwindles into nothing; smoldering embers turn themselves out like floor lamps. The cigarette drops from his quaking hold and disappears somewhere between his lap and the carpet, now a greying, distant smear in the dim lighting. A whole smattering of warnings, pleas, and admonishments scream at him, blaring directly into his ear as if through a bull horn, yelling, shouting, almost pleading with him to knock it off as he fumbles for another one. His ways are too ingrained, they demonstrate, and his idiotic will to dig himself a grave too deep to climb out of wins once again. He'll pay for it later, he always does.

It's a constant cycle. Crime. Punishment. Retaliation. Punishment. Retaliation. Punishment. Retaliation. Neither side wants to give in. He can't blame his father for anything, really—he has it coming, he knows he does, and maybe that's why the allure of troublemaking is so irresistible. Miles Hollingsworth II, the brilliant, the charismatic, the Man for a Better Tomorrow—he has the whole city in his front pocket, and by extension, the eyes of the city peering up at his angular features through long, messy eyelashes. All of his time, dedicated to them, none of his time to Miles. Attention had been hard thing to come by growing up; in a family of five children, a trophy wife, and politician, this should have been a given.

Funny how the sparsest resource is what he craves most.

Unfortunately, he never mastered the art of Knowing When to Stop. He pokes, prods, stabs, provokes, antagonizes the bear. Over and over and over again. The same things, the same, repetitive notions performed over and over and over again, always resulting in the same outcome, and time after time, somehow, he's surprised. Crime. Punishment. Retaliation. He can't stop, some kind of masochistic, self-loathing, ulterior motive prompting his every action. It's sick and twisted and _wrong, _but it's too late to break the chain; they're seasoned veterans in this game. Quitting is out of the question. He can't stop, but one day, he knows it's going to break him, and he'll be exposed for exactly what he is—a torn paper boy with a paper-thin ego to match.

He ignores the desperate warnings, pleas, and admonishments and strikes a match against the nearly-empty matchbox he dug out of the drawer of the armoire. The flame dances atop the tiny, cardboard-and-sandpaper stick, brighter than the crackled radiance of the cigarette, brighter than all the light left in the airy room. He can't help but stare, transfixed, as the familiar jolt tugs behind his navel. _Drop it, _it tells him. _Drop it, _the thought is appealing. Just a tiny, insignificant relaxation of the tiny, insignificant muscles in his thumb and forefinger and the white carpet, now stained by ruddy ash, will go up it a blaze of glory. He did, so he proved, have a knack for pyrotechnics.

Blind fear shoves the paper-wrapped cigarette into the devilish glimmer before he can stop himself; his numb arm shakes the light out. It too, slips from his fingertips and into the abyss forming at his feet. The faint glow punctures the heavy blanket draped over his head, but not enough. It's dark and he knows the last of the Reception Robots are filing out through the foyer, their bellies warm with Mommy's Favorite Cocktails and heads filled with Daddy's Promises for Our City. As they leave, they peck his mother on the cheek and pump his father's hand, too-big smiles stretched across their too-big faces. And back, his parents dish out hearty Goodbye's, the parting guests ignorant to what had gone on a few short hours ago, ignorant to what's sure to come as soon as the caboose of the exit train vanishes beyond the front door.

Poor Rich Kid, Poor Paper Boy.

His hands are trembling worse than before, speckled ash falling slapdash—here, there, nice white carpet, tarnished. He can hear the heavy, expensive door click into place. Half the cigarette congregates in several piles, small, exclusive cliques hugging his shoes like the girls at the country club. He closes his eyes, the heels of his trembling hands resolving to put their jittery strength to use on the hard curvature of his forehead. Eventually, the cigarette puts itself out like the last one. There it hangs, stuck between his fingers, lifeless and burnt.

He can hear voices on the staircase. He can hear voices in the hall. He doesn't know why, but a little piece of his chest falls into his stomach as he grapples with the last match and yet another cigarette. He can hear voices outside the door. He strikes the match, lights the cigarette, shoves it in his mouth, and arranges his features into the best damn smug expression he can muster. The silver doorknob turns in place, an effortless, arching motion enough to shatter his composure, though he'd never let it show. He tries not to wince at the bitter taste as the tainted air slithers down his throat.

He has it coming, he knows he does. One more crack in his façade, two more cracks. Crime. Punishment. Retaliation. He can't stop; the game, the constant cycle, is all he knows.

Poor Rich Kid, Poor Paper Boy.

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**A/N: **I borrowed "The Creek" (Culver Creek) from John Green's _Looking for Alaska _(which is a fabulous book if you've never read it). I don't own that, I just thought it seemed like Miles could have fit in there—not necessarily with Pudge and Company, but at the school.

Hope you enjoyed! :)


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